I Never Thought I'd Be a Runner

I wasn't supposed to be a runner. But I am.

Looking back, I can recall my last semester of college when I got stuck, yes stuck, with a running class. What I thought was going to be an easy, never-show-up-but-pass class, ended up being a run-four-miles-or-you-don’t-graduate-college class. Simply stated, it sucked. I had no desire to run, so I jogged those five months—whining up every hill and complaining through every mile— I barely reached the four mile requirement, and graduated.

Yet, here I was twelve years later folding my Nike Dri-FIT pants, straightening my socks, lining up Shot bloks, and counting safety pins. I closed the bedroom door, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed. The next day I was going to run the Napa Valley Marathon.

I could hear my husband and our friends in the living room—the pop of bottles opening, the clinking of glasses. For them, this was a relaxing weekend in Napa, but not for me. As they were drinking and discussing the musical merits of rock bands, I was trying to quiet my mind so I could sleep.

What if? What if I couldn’t make it? What if I got to mile 16, and then it happened…dead-legs. I can’t run the last 10 miles with dead-legs. The walk-run-walk routine because my legs are tingly and numb, oh man. It’s okay. I’ve run 22 miles. I’ve been training. I’ve been tapering for the last month- my legs were rested. I’m okay as long as I eat. Oh, wait. Did I pack enough Shot bloks? I should have brought an extra pack. Oh, crap, I knew I would forget something. Crap. They have food on the course. It’s okay. I can eat those oranges I see people eating in photos. I’ll be okay. But what if the orange upsets my stomach? What if I have to go to the bathroom in those porta-potties? Oh, crap!

Needless to say, 4 a.m. came quickly. Moving through the motions, I showered, dressed, and tip-toed into the kitchen. Tim, my coworker and running buddy, stood over the toaster half-awake waiting for the waffles to warm.

As we ate, occasionally the tired face of a friend would emerge from around the corner. First Jacquelyn, then Liz, like curious kids they fired off questions, “Are you ready? Do you need a ride? More coffee? Anything?”

“Go back to bed crazy ladies,” I said, “it’s 4 in the morning.” But like parents on the first day of school they waited for us to leave, waving goodbye and shouting, “Good Luck!”

It was a 50-minute bus ride- in which our legs were crammed between green seats- before we arrived at the start line 26.2 miles up St. Helena Highway. In the darkness, as we passed through Napa, St. Helena, and Calistoga, my anxiety started to set in. Tim was chatting with our co-worker and friend, Rebecca. But for me, all I could focus on was the distance. What the hell was I thinking? I must be stupid; I volunteered for this. I paid for this.

Thankfully, the fear of embarrassment from quitting was enough to get me to the starting line. And then, with a national anthem and a wave goodbye to Rebecca, we were on our way. Tim had mentioned that he was going to run the race with me, but I figured we’d see how things went.

The first few miles were like any other, we chatted, paying little attention to running. We talked about work—his stresses of being a musician, my stresses of trying to hit sales goals. We exhausted the work subject and moved on to his upcoming wedding to Sharon—the food that was in the works, the wedding ring, and the “situation” with the dress. We then moved on to my husband and the lingering decision to get his Ph.D., and then to upcoming vacation and honeymoon plans.

Somewhere between miles 14-16 we stopped to cut the irritating sleeves off Tim’s shirt, ate two orange slices, and then continued on. Somewhere between mile 16-18, Tim took a lead in front of me and started working through music in his head, his hands moving up and down as if conducting or keeping time. Somewhere between mile 18-20, Tim started talking to another runner about California, the weather, and who knows what else. And finally, at mile 20 we allowed ourselves to talk about food—bacon, eggs, and more bacon.

At mile 21 my body and brain started to tire. Tim, having run marathons before, could sense it. Looking back at me he said, “just keep running” and I did. Having read enough books, blogs, and magazines, I had saved some mind-tricks for the end and so the dedications began. I ran mile 22 for Liz and Jacquelyn who came to Napa to cheer me on. I ran mile 23 for my husband and all the running rants he endured. I ran mile 24 for Rebecca who had given me so much, from advice to running clothes. Rebecca would have told me I was a champ, so I ran mile 24 like a champ. Mile 25 was for Tim and Sharon- Sharon, who would occasionally run with me during the week and Tim who, unless he had plans to make a break for it, had run the entire 26.2 miles with me.

With a few stops and couple more oranges in between, Tim and I turned the corner onto the home stretch, mile 26. This one was for me. Me, who was never supposed to be a runner, but it was me who was running. Me, who had decided to start running a year ago. Me, who dedicated the last year to running five days a week. Me, who gave up drinking on Saturday to survive those long runs on Sundays. Me, who had worked really hard, to run really far. Me. Mile 26 was mine.

I crossed the finish line in a daze, overwhelmed by the thought that I had actually ran 26.2 miles and fixated on the thought of food. Tim held up his hand for a “hell yeah” high-five, we lowered are heads for our medals, and then smiled for our photo—proof that we really did finish. Soon we found our friends, gave a recap of the race, hit the showers, ate burritos, and shared stories. It was good. But, soon enough, it was over. Within a few hours we were back home, back to work, and back to a regular 5 mile run on Tuesday.

I’ve thought a lot about the marathon since March, and in reflection, I’ve come to realize the marathon wasn’t the biggest accomplishment. Yea, yea, I’m part of the 1 percent now, or so I’m told. But truth be told, the magic of a marathon isn’t in the 26.2 miles on race day; it’s in the nearly 500 miles of training that happens in the months before. It was the conversations with Tim that laid a foundation of trust for our friendship. It’s the thoughtfulness that Sharon showed those times she had chocolate milk at the end of our long runs. It’s the overwhelming generosity Rebecca showed me, from giving me her rain jacket after hearing about me freezing without one, to running my first 15 miler with me, taking me out to breakfast afterward, and everything in between (she really is too good to be true). It’s the amazing sense of love I felt when I saw my friends wearing “Team Stacy” t-shirts at the finish line. And, it’s in the countless feelings, frustrations, and fears I have worked through while running down those desolate, tree-lined roads. You see, I wasn’t supposed to be a runner. But I am. And my life is better because I chose to be a one.

Stacy Lucier is a marketing manager in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has run six half marathons and one full marathon, and is currently training for the Morgan Hill and California International Marathon this year, with the goal of running an Ultra Marathon next spring. Follow all her running adventures on Instagram @slucier.

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